


we'll follow death and all his friends

by chrysa (Kyuu)



Category: Pokemon
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe - War, Animal Abuse, Community: pokeprompts, F/M, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Other, Permanent Injury, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:59:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyuu/pseuds/chrysa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johto and Kanto have always been at war. But war is never just about power or battles or countries, but rather the people who live through them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the longest shadows ever cast

**Author's Note:**

> Skylark accused me of writing happy things once, and this is what happens.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyra learns the hard way that wars are paid for in blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for pokeprompts' prompt 001: summer skin.

Johto and Kanto have always been at war.

Or at least that’s what they say, but Lyra doesn’t believe a speck of it. After all, she’s turning eleven this year, and it hasn’t been forever since she’s seen her father.

Lyra doesn’t remember her father though, doesn’t remember his warm brown eyes or his strong hands that carried her around the house, but her mother does.

 _Your father was a good man,_ she tells Lyra, her voice strong and confident and carefully untinged with any sadness, but even at ten, Lyra can still hear it.

Lyra’s father was a good man, her mother had told her, one of the first to volunteer when he’d heard about the war, and one of the first to die. He was a brave soldier, a good man, and that’s why he won an award for bravery - the PokéHeart, proudly displayed in their small living room - and why the army keeps sending them checks.

 _Why are we fighting?_ Lyra asks. _Why did Dad have to fight at all?_

Her mother looks back at her, smiles and says, _Your father was a good man._

Lyra doesn’t know what to believe anymore.

 

Lyra is thirteen when the checks stop coming.

It’s that space of time right between spring and summer, when the nights are still cool and the air has yet to turn humid enough to be sticky and uncomfortable. In last week of class, Lyra comes home to her mother quietly sobbing in the kitchen.

Lyra knows her mother cries. Lyra knows her mother cries often, but never lets Lyra see it because her mother wants to be strong for her.

But her mother doesn’t even try to pretend when Lyra walks in.

 _Mother, mother, what’s wrong?_ Lyra asks.

Her mother waves her off, handkerchief dabbling away the tear stains in one hand, the other grabbing at the opened letter on the table. Lyra hesitantly retreats to her room.

That night, she sneaks out into the kitchen and finds what her mother’s been hiding.

 

 _Tell me about father,_ Lyra asks on the night before the last day of school.

 _Your father was a good man,_ her mother says.

 _Tell me a story, mother,_ Lyra says.

 _You’re too old for a story,_ her mother replies, but tells Lyra about a time when cities weren’t rampaged by destruction and debris, when Sentrets roamed wild and Hoothoots and Pidgeys fluttered across the fields, when sunsets were warm and colorful on the edge of summer - a time before a war that began forever ago.

May, Lyra thinks, used to be a beautiful month.

 _Good night,_ her mother says when she turns off Lyra’s lights.

 _Goodbye,_ Lyra says, but her mother never hears.

 

Lyra arrives at training camp with two outfits and as much food as she managed to stuff in her backpack that morning. She finds out within an hour that she doesn’t need the clothes anymore - exchanges her bright reds and blues for dull army greys - but it takes her two weeks to figure out that she should’ve forgone the clothes for food anyway, army rations wearing her thin.

 _I’m Lyra,_ she says to the enlister in charge of the registration forms, and tells him how she is her father’s daughter.

The enlister stops filling out the forms and looks up at her blankly.

 _He was one of the first people to serve, one of the first people to die. My father was a good man,_ she says again when her father’s name doesn’t spark any recognition in the man’s eyes.

 _A lot of good men have died for this war,_ he says before turning back to filling out the rest of her forms.

 

On the first night, she gets a hysterical phone call on her PokéGear from her mother.

 _Where are you?_ her mother yells, sounding close to tears.

 _You don’t need to worry about me, mother,_ Lyra tells her soothingly and smiles even though her mother can’t see her.

 _If you don’t come back by the end of the week, I never want to see you again,_ her mother threatens.

Lyra frowns. _Don’t be like that, mother. I’m doing what’s best for our family. I’m taking care of you, and I can take care of myself._

Her mother hangs up, but calls back the next night to plead again. And the next night.

But the calls stop coming after a week.

 

Basic training lasts for two weeks. Lyra thinks that they are the longest two weeks of her life. She wakes up exhausted at 0600 hours in the morning, and goes to bed exhausted at 0000 hours at night.

She runs and trips, sprints and falls, rinses and repeats. She learns to do push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups until she can barely keep herself up anymore.

It’s all worth it, though, at the end of the week when she is presented with a check in a modest amount made out to her family.

Lyra’s smile is wider than the sun as she heads to their on-base postal service and mails it back to New Bark Town.

 

At the end of basic, Lyra takes an aptitude test. To see if she’s fit to have a Pokémon companion, they tell her.

Every serviceman used to get a Pokémon, she’s overheard from older soldiers. But now, after an eternity of war, wild Pokémon are rare, Pokémon are hard to breed. They only present Pokémon to those who are capable, who are worthy of having them.

Lyra passes with flying colors, and at the end, is presented with a sweet, cheerful little Marill.

The Marill is sleeping the first time Lyra meets it. _This is your partner, Marill,_ they tell her and Lyra leans in to pat her new companion on the head, smiling. The Marill’s bright eyes pop open as soon she touches it, and it leaps into her arms from the table it was sleeping on.

Lyra gasps and chokes back a sob as it cuddles against her neck. How could she force such a tiny thing to fight?

 

Lyra sees the first familiar face in a month at her Pokémon training course.

 _Lyra!_ her school friend Ethan calls out when she walks in the door to the class, and drags her over to where he’s sitting with his partner Cyndaquil and a red-haired boy with a Totodile.

 _This is Silver,_ Ethan introduces, and Silver manages to cast her a sideways glance before the instructor ushers all of them into their seats.

 _What are you doing here?_ Lyra asks him as they walk out the door, Silver trailing behind them.

Ethan laughs nervously and rubs the back of his head. _Everyone has their reasons,_ he says, and looks back at Silver, who is pointedly ignoring both of them.

 _What about you, though?_ he asks. _Never thought you’d be the type._

Lyra smiles. She doesn’t understand this, doesn’t understand war or why they’re fighting, but she’s still here. _For my mother,_ she says.

It’s the only thing she’s sure of still.

 

 _Your partner Pokémon’s objective is to distract. The object of the soldier is to attack,_ they are instructed. _If necessary, the partner Pokémon will play the role of defense in a retreat._

 _What happens if your partner is injured on the battlefield?_ someone raises their hand and asks.

 _Do not retrieve the Pokémon unless if it safe for the soldier. The priority is for the soldier to make it back to safety first. The Pokémon’s safety is second,_ the instructor replies.

Lyra looks down at Marill who’s leaning back against her chest, and wonders if it can understand the instructor.

 _What happens to the Pokémon if the soldier is killed in battle?_ she asks.

The instructor ignores her question.

 

The nights at the end of June of are thick and hot, and Lyra can’t sleep. She’s tired, miserable, but tomorrow, they’re shipping her battalion out to the battlefield, into the middle of the war. The only thing that comforts her is that she won’t be separated from her Marill or Ethan and Silver.

She glances at her clock. It’s 0132 hours, she thinks, and then jolts in shock when she realizes how she now thinks of it that way, instead of as 1:32am. She takes in a shaky breath, slips out of bed as silently as she can so as to not wake Marill or her roommate. In the hallway, she dials her home phone number on her PokéGear.

Her mother’s sleepy, confused voice answers the phone.

Lyra’s chest tightens, and fear and homesickness twists in the pit of her stomach.

She thinks, I miss you and, I want to go home, and I’m scared of dying, but instead, she says, _Mother, did you get the checks?_

There’s a long pause. When her mother finally speaks, her voice is tight and trembling. _Lyra…_

Something inside of Lyra breaks. Her eyes widen and she snaps close the PokéGear before either of them can say anything else, turning it off so her mother can’t call her back. Lyra lets out a shaky breath before opening her door again. She crawls back into bed and stares at her clock. 0140 hours. She has to get up in less than five hours.

Lyra turns in her bed and cries herself to sleep.

 

The battlefield is nothing like Lyra expects, and no number of classes or simulations could’ve prepared her for this.

It’s hot, slick, and muddy in the trenches, but even worse by the barricades, where most of the fighting is. Bullets whiz around her head and ricochet against sand, metal, wood, whatever there is to stop it; plow, cling, crunch echoing around her and in her ear.

Lyra holds her rifle, and picks out a partner-less soldier on the other side, instructing Marill to direct a water gun at him. As Marill attacks, Lyra aims to fire at him, but suddenly crashes to the ground.

 _Rill!_ Marill shrieks, and Lyra nearly fires into the air.

Lyra pushes Marill off, ready to yell at it, until she notices a bullet hole where she’d been standing less than a second prior.

Marill looks at her, scared, and she carefully pats it on the head in thanks. She won’t let her guard down again.

 

Ethan’s bleeding. Lyra screams and cries and begs, _No no no no this can’t be happening it isn’t happening please tell me this isn’t happening this isn’t real_ , but Ethan’s still bleeding.

Ethan reaches up with a shaky hand to reassure her, but that only sends Lyra into further hysterics.

 _Move!_ Silver shoves her aside and bends down to put pressure on Ethan’s wound.

Tears are sliding down Silver’s cheeks as well, but Lyra barely notices, only seeing that Ethan’s eyes are glazing over.

 _I’ll be okay, Lyra,_ he says, as Lyra’s uselessly hovering over Silver’s shoulder. Ethan’s Quilava looks to its partner, then crawls into Lyra’s arms to comfort her.

Ethan raises a hand and brushes off the stray tear that’s threatening to spill out of Silver’s left eye. _Don’t cry for me, Silver._

 _Shut up!_ Silver screams. _Shut up shut up shut the fuck up you idiot._

He doesn’t stop screaming until the paramedics arrive.

 

Ethan gets an honorable discharge, a Zephyr Badge for his bravery, and a small monthly pension for the rest of his life.

What he doesn’t get, however, is to walk ever again.

He calls her on her PokéGear as soon as he’s returned to New Bark Town.

 _Is Silver okay?_ is the first thing he asks, and Lyra’s chest tightens a little with an emotion she doesn’t recognize. _Please take care of him, now that I can’t._

He calls her every day, makes sure she is okay, that Silver is okay. She doesn’t pick up every day, sometimes too exhausted to even hand the phone off to Silver, sometimes still on the battlefield, but she looks forward to it when she can.

 _How’s Silver doing?_ Ethan will ask, and Lyra will smile even though he can’t see it, and tell him that Silver is fine, they’re all fine or as fine as people in the middle of warzone could be. What she doesn’t mention though, is how Silver is a little more careless, a little more reckless - almost daring to taunt death - without Ethan around.

 _I talked to your mother,_ Ethan tells her one day, and Lyra realizes it’s been weeks since she’s heard from her mother. _She misses you._

 _I miss air conditioning._ Lyra laughs, because it too painful to think about anything else.

 _You should call her,_ Ethan says.

 _Did you ask her if she got my checks?_ Lyra replies.

 

It happens at the end of August.

If Lyra hadn’t left, hadn't joined the war, she would’ve been staring school in a week.

When it happens, at first, an avalanche of thoughts race through Lyra’s mind. _Oh no. No no no, it’s too soon too soon. I have more I have to do, more I need to do._

But then, she realizes, the outcome will be the same no matter how long she drags this out.

 _No! Don’t you dare die. Don’t you dare die and leave me too, you stupid bitch,_ she hears and sees a blur of red and grey and browns, her vision too hazy to make anything out anymore.

Lyra chokes out a gasp.

She wonders why she isn’t crying. Maybe she’d wasted all her tears on Ethan, on other things already, and doesn’t have any left for herself.

 _Rill…_ The flash of blur out of the corner of her eye tries to comfort her, and Lyra manages a shaky smile.

A chant of, _Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die,_ is spilling out of Silver’s mouth now as he tries to stop her bleeding, and Lyra just wants to tell him that she doesn’t mind, that it’ll be okay.

Three months, Lyra thinks, three months is enough for her. Three months of her summer war story is enough, and even if it hadn’t happened today, she doesn’t think she could’ve held on for much longer anyway.

Three months is long enough for Lyra, and she hopes that ten years is long enough for her mother. Because war is death, and war is paid for in blood; but life? Life isn’t paid for in tears or in smiles, but in money, cold hard cash.

And ten years of it is all Lyra can leave to her mother now.

 _Tell Ethan to take care of my mother,_ she wants to tell Silver, but instead coughs up blood.

 _The paramedics will be here soon. Hang on, Lyra,_ Silver pleads, and Lyra thinks that it’s the first time she’s ever heard him say her name. She looks up at the blur of him, wondering if he’s crying for her too, and notices that the rest of his hair is now blending into the warm evening dusk.

Suddenly, Lyra is swept up with a wind of memories, chilling and comforting in the lingering pre-evening heat, memories of her mother’s determined smile, the smell of her delicious cooking, of her comforting hugs. Then - images of warm brown eyes, her father’s eyes in her own, a pair of strong hands, and a crowd of memories that she never knew she had. Them, three, all together, a family.

August, Lyra thinks, is a beautiful month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally published 2010.08.25


	2. slip through me like grains of sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jasmine has to be strong for everyone, even though there's no one to be strong for her.

She climbs the stairs every night, the two hundred and seventeen steps to reach the top of the lighthouse. She counts the steps as they pass by under her feet, _one, two, three..._ all the way up to two hundred and seventeen.

She likes this, the swirl of concrete stairs beneath her feet and the curve of the rusting rail that guides her upward. She likes that each step is the same, the same distance and same solidity between the first and the two hundred and seventeenth stair, each bringing her closer to her destination.

Right before dusk, she starts the flame and sets the top of the lighthouse alight. Then she steps back and watches through the western window as the early September sun sets over the sea, slowly losing itself in the low-lying fog as the ocean vaporizes the fire out of the sky.

She stays there all night.

She doesn't have to, but she does anyway, every night. Jasmine watches to make sure that the flame doesn't die.

 

There had been talk of an elevator once, before a war that started forever ago had drained all the funds away. For tourists, for the townspeople, they'd said, so they didn't have to climb two hundred and seventeen steps to see all of Olivine from the top of the lighthouse.

There had been a time, once, when the lighthouse was beautiful, when the white painted walls on the outside weren't dulled to a grey from all the soot and debris that drifted over from the warzone. When the handrails were a pristine blue instead of a flaking burgundy.

And there had also been a time once when the Mineral Badge meant more than a medal they threw at your feet for throwing yourself into the front line of gunfire. When her family, who'd run the gym, cared for the lighthouse, had been respected for what they did, not demanded of it.

Once upon a time, a lot of things were true, but Jasmine isn't so sure anymore. They tell her that Johto and Kanto have always been at war, but even if Jasmine doesn't know anything else, she's sure of one thing: she hasn't been alive since forever.

 

Jasmine has a pen pal, someone in Sunyshore City who she'd met once in her childhood on a family trip to Sinnoh. It was fitting; they were both the only children of the family who oversaw a lighthouse, a city, a sea.

Volkner had been so cold even back then, icy eyes that matched neither his sunny blond hair nor his youthful years. But Jasmine had taken him by the hand, forever ago when they had both been kids, and smiled. _Show me Sunyshore... show me what you love about this city,_ she'd insisted, and he thawed a little under her touch.

 _I'd never see him warm up to anyone that quickly,_ Volkner's best friend had chuckled, but he was being kind at best. Volkner had barely said a thing when she'd asked if they could be penpals.

 _Volkner,_ she'd write anyway, again and again, before the war. _I miss you. Is your family doing well? I'd like to see you all again. Maybe you can visit Olivine this time._

She'd send out her message through the lighthouse window on a postcard of the Olivine shore attached to a Pidgey's leg. Then she'd wait by the window days on end with baited breath for Pidgey to return with something - anything. And each time, when the tiny bird came empty-handed, she'd merely sigh and wait another few days to try again.

Then, she finally gets her reply. That time - the first time - Pidgey comes back shaken up, bloodied, and slightly worse for wear. Jasmine doesn't even bother reading it before pushing through the crowds at the Pokémon Center to find help.

When she finally settles down in a waiting room chair, exhausted and finally reassured that Pidgey will be okay, she finally takes a look at the letter.

 _My family was thinking about next month._

Jasmine trembles and lets herself mourn for a minute - and no longer - for all the possibilities that had died between the stroke of his pen and the words reaching her eyes. Then, she schools her expression back to what's expected, strong and determined, and reconciles with the reality that there would be no next month, if an ever.

War had already broken out.

 

 _Amphy is sick, so sick,_ mother tells her, _there's nothing we can do, what shall we do?_

 _The Pokémon Center... they can't heal Amphy, Mama?_

 _Amphy needs a special medicine, baby, there's a pharmacist in Cianwood who can make it but we can't get there when Kanto has a blockade. Even the sailors, maybe they can get there, but how will they get back, there's no light without Amphy, what will they do?_

Jasmine purses her lips and makes her choice, because someone has to. _I'll do it... Mama. I'll keep the lighthouse... I'll look after it until Amphy is better._

 

The sailors, they're all so nice with their gapped teeth and their wide smiles crinkling around their eyes - even their slurred syllables tumbling a stilted concern to say the proper things around a girl like her.

Most of all, though, they're all so young, so young, they couldn't be much older than herself, and Jasmine can't imagine their wide smiles and crinkled eyes out on the wide blue sea fighting, dying, over anything.

They're all the same, all different, and none of them have ever introduced themselves to her, but she knows each of them anyway.

 _Miss Jasmine is so pretty,_ Buckteeth will start every time as she's making dinner for them. Then Curly Blond will say, _Miss Jasmine, you remind me just of my sweetheart back home,_ and Glasses will chastise them and tell them to behave themselves. Then Baby Blue Eyes will say, _What would we do if Miss Jasmine weren't the light of our lives?_ and the rest will all howl and laugh and dissolve into boisterous chattering.

And Jasmine will smile and keep cooking dinner because a home-cooked meal is the least she can do for these boys, the aroma wafting through their laughter.

And when she's setting their plates and serving their portions, she'll ask, _Amphy's medicine...?_ and they'll all assure her, _We're doing our best, Miss Jasmine_. Jasmine's heart sinks a little, but all she has is hope.

 

Volkner writes back now, every single time, his letters delivered by a boy on a Pidgeot too old to be his own with eyes too sad for his years.

If she lets herself read in between the lines, she'd know it was pity. So she doesn't read that closely. Instead, she'll scan whatever he's willing to tell her - about Raichu or whatever mischief he's gotten into with Flint or, now, his studies in Unova - and Jasmine's lips will curve softly before she picks out another postcard to write back on.

 _We are all busy here, but well,_ she'll say. _Autumn is always a little chilly, but Olivine is really beautiful this time of year. Maybe one day you can visit._

She doesn't know who she's trying to convince: him or herself.

 

 _Jasmine, sweetie, don't keep asking the boys about the medicine, they have enough to worry about, don't trouble them anymore,_ her mother says.

Jasmine doesn't understand. _Mama... why not...? It's not for me, it's for Amphy... it's for them. The lighthouse is for them._

 _I know, baby, I know, but they have you, and for right now, it's the best - they have too many other things to worry about. For right now, it's enough._

 

The sailors, they're all so young, but even Jasmine can see their tiredness fraying at the edges of their laughter and _Miss Jasmine, Miss Jasmine_ 's.

 _Miss Jasmine is so pretty, reminds me just of my girl at home. We shouldn't bother Miss Jasmine, but what would we do if she weren't the light of lives?_

Jasmine smiles despite herself, but stops, feeling her determination slowly coming undone. She bites her bottom lip. Maybe she shouldn't - maybe she doesn't have the right. But she doesn't stop. Jasmine doesn't stop asking.

It's not that she's used to getting whatever she wants, no, it's not like that at all. Even back then, back before the war, it was never like that. Jasmine could put aside her own hopes and dreams and needs and desires, but for others - for Amphy, who is sick - she would always fight for them.

 _Please help, please. Amphy is sick, so sick, there's nothing we can do... won't you help Amphy... please?_

Buckteeth averts his eyes, and Curly Blond coughs and shifts nervously. Even Glasses is at a loss.

 _It's not that simple, Miss Jasmine,_ they try to explain. _The blockade is too strong. Amphy is just one Pokémon. There's only so much we can do._

Jasmine's heart drops like lead to the bottom of the ocean, and her anger finally bubbles over.

 _You wouldn't do the same... for each other? For someone you loved? For... me?_

Jasmine turns in a huff, dress ruffles tangled around her knees, and is out the door before she even bothers to see if anyone will answer. But Baby Blue Eyes finally catches up to her as she's on the fifth stair up the lighthouse.

 _Miss Jasmine, Miss Jasmine,_ he calls after her, _I understand. I'll help you get that medicine for Amphy. No matter what it takes._

She stops mid-step and turns, finding the blue in his eyes almost too eager and hopeful. She nods at him once and before continuing her ascent, hand gripped tightly around the rusting rail.

If there's only one thing Jasmine's learned about war, it's this: always trust actions more than words.

 

When Jasmine climbs to the top, for the first time in a long time, she looks, really looks at Olivine. From the window, she can see the Pokémon Center and the line going out its door, all the anxious soldiers and sailors waiting for service for themselves and their companions. Then, against the side of the building, a few Sentrets or Rattatas curled up together, huddling against the wall - abandoned or waiting for trainers who wouldn't (couldn't) ever come back.

She looks past that, north, to the Miltank farm that hasn't put out MooMoo Milk in ages. MooMoo, she knows, is sick, so sick, just like Amphy, but what can they do?

Jasmine purses her lips and turns her eyes to the sky and the clouds hanging low in the southern horizon, the deflecting back on the city. It won't rain tonight, she knows, but it will soon.

She pulls out a postcard, the last postcard she has of Olivine from before the war. They didn't print them anymore. Though they always could, but what was the point?

Holding the postcard out at an arm's length out, she considers the picture's pristine, clear shoreline before shifting her gaze back out the window. From the distance, the reds and yellows of the October trees dot the scenery like an oil canvas; she tries to focus on that.

And not on the edges of the tide, which are slightly tinted with the blood that could never quite be washed out of the sand, or on the white walls of the buildings lined up against the beach, which are smeared brown with an immeasurable mixture of dirt and sorrow.

Maybe it's just the light, she lets herself think - hope, for a moment.

But, no, she knows better. Jasmine is young, still naive sometimes, and there are many things she doesn't understand. But she knows this: she hasn't been here since forever. And once upon a time, she remembers a city that was beautiful.

 

Elesa.

 _Elesa, Elesa, Elesa,_ Volkner writes.

He doesn't outright say it, but she's not stupid. It's not that she wants to see it, but she'd have to be willfully blind to not.

There's something almost like sympathy in the mail courier's eyes as he hands her the letter, but Jasmine isn't having any of that.

 _Keep your pity to yourself,_ she says, the words sliding off her tongue cool as steel.

There's a split second whiplash, but it's Jasmine who flinches back, jolted by her own words.

 _I... I'm sorry,_ she mumbles, turning away. The mail boy just shrugs, his blue eyes deep and unreadable. He retreats a bit into himself and breathes out quietly, his puffs of white breath the only thing keeping him from completely blending into the blue autumn-morning air.

 _I've heard worse... bringer of bad news and all._ The corners of his lips curve up slightly before pressing together into a thin line. _I've broken a lot of hearts that weren't mine to break._ They both leave it at that.

Later, alone in the lighthouse at midday, Jasmine sits delicately balanced at the edge of her chair, fingers tracing each of the words written in Volkner's miniscule, messy script. Noting how carefully and delicately written _Elesa_ was each time.

 _Elesa is vibrant, electric,_ Volkner writes, and the rest is so sweet even Jasmine feels a little sick from it. (Or maybe it's heartache.)

But this line makes her stop: _Elesa's the light of my life._ Maybe Jasmine shakes a little, but she quickly collects herself. Solid and stable; strong, like steel.

 _Love is war,_ she'd read once, in the books of her childhood before a war that started forever ago, stories that encouraged fanciful flights of romance. Jasmine is older now - better; she's had time to live for herself. Love isn't war - love is a luxury.

Only war is war.

 

 _Miss Jasmine, Miss Jasmine!_ the sailors clatter as they flood into her tiny kitchen in the gym. _How've you been, Miss Jasmine? We've been good - I mean, well, that is. But good too, for you._ They try to laugh, but even she can hear the fatigue choking on their chuckles.

Jasmine keeps quiet and stirs her pot, needing that extra moment to pull herself together. She knows how the game goes, how to play it. She hadn't stormed out. They'd never disappointed her. No matter what, nothing happened last time, nothing happened in between then, and no matter how tired, hurt, unhappy they were, it would always be the same. They were fine, all fine, everything was fine, and she would be fine too. That was the game.

 _You look as beautiful as usual, Miss Jasmine,_ Buckteeth says, though his heart's not in it.

 _Seeing Miss Jasmine is almost better than seeing my sweetheart at home,_ Curly Blond lies, his words laced thick with nostalgia and homesickness.

 _Don't be a bother to Miss Jasmine. She's too busy,_ Glasses remarks, but there's no bite to his words this time.

Jasmine pokes at a potato in the stew, waiting for the final punch line so she could get on with the charade. A moment, two, then three pass, fading into an uncomfortable pause. She waits, biting the inside of her bottom lip. Her head jerks towards them, and she finds all of them looking back at her with quiet in their eyes.

All of them except _him_.

Her heart pounds loudly in her ears, a patch of dryness caught in her throat.

She knows. She knows she knows she doesn't have to ask because she _knows_ , but she doesn't really know. She couldn't ask anyway. How could she ask when she didn't even know his _name_.

Jasmine turns back slowly, the numbness running down her arms so cold that she can't even feel the rising steam from the pot.

Behind her, the sailors slowly move to set the tables for dinner, the clanking of plates and silverware against each other trying to stifle the silence. There's no laughter, though, or chatter. Just movement, and the chairs scraping against the linoleum floor.

Jasmine sniffles slightly, her hand wiping against the bottom edge of her eye.

 _Miss Jasmine -_ one of them tries, but she cuts him off.

 _Something caught in my eye,_ she explains quickly. _Dinner will be ready in a minute._

The game has ended, though, she knows. It's pushed past a point to which they could return. That night, dinner is a silent and solemn affair.

For the first time, Jasmine doesn't ask about the medicine.

 

Oh, but Amphy is sick, so sick, there's nothing they can do, they haven't much time, and all Jasmine wants to do is curl up at the edge of Amphy's cot and cry.

Instead, she sits and pets Amphy's head, trying to soothe even though the medicines they do have aren't doing much.

 _Shh,_ she says, trying to calm both Amphy's weak cries and her mother's quiet sobs. Thunder rumbles low in the distance, and Amphy whimpers. Jasmine soothingly rubs circles on Amphy's back.

 _The storm... Jasmine, don't forget Amphy's medicine -_

 _I'll get it, Mama, don't worry,_ she says. _I just... have to take care of the lighthouse first._

 _Remember, the PokéMart closes at 8 -_

 _I_ know, Jasmine says, the words coming out cool and harsher than she intends. _I know, but the sailors... This is more important. Amphy still has some medicine left._

She walks out before her mother can say anything else though, and heads from the gym toward the lighthouse. She has so much to do, and no time to argue - start the fire in the lighthouse for tonight, run and get Amphy's medicine even though it's barely of any help, deliver it, then make dinner for the sailors again because they're leaving tomorrow, help out at the Pokémon Center because they're always short on hands, but check up on the lighthouse in between all that - make sure the flame doesn't die. And each time, she has to climb up and down each of the two hundred and seventeen steps, because there's no elevator, nothing else that would make it faster.

Jasmine doesn't mind because she knows she has to do this. Jasmine has to be strong for them, be strong for the sailors, for Amphy, for her mother - for everyone in Olivine, because she's the last one left. She has to be strong even though there's no one who will be strong for her.

Halfway to the lighthouse, rain starts to drizzle down. Jasmine pulls her cardigan on tight and walks faster.

By the time she gets there, she's half drenched and shivering slightly. Jasmine doesn't grab the handrail because the metal is too cold and tingly against her numb fingers, frozen by the November rain. She doesn't need it though because she's walked these steps hundreds of times, knows how solid each step is under her feet. _One step, two, three_...

Maybe it's because she's tired or she has too much to do and is walking too fast or her shoes are slippery from the rain, but this time, between the eleventh and twelfth step, her foot slips.

Jasmine gasps and her eyes go wide. She tries to grab hold of the rail, but it's already too late.

She falls.

 

 _No, I can still do it,_ she insists. _I'm fine, I'm really fine. The cast will come off in a few weeks._

In the end, they let her be because there's nothing else they can do. They need her. They needed her to be fine, even if she really wasn't, because she had to be. Amphy is still so sick they're not even sure it'll make it through the winter, and who else could take care of the lighthouse?

 _Miss Jasmine, take care of yourself,_ the sailors all told her before they left, and she smiled and kissed each of them on the cheek.

 _I should be saying that to you,_ she'd replied.

Now, she climbs up the staircase to the lighthouse for them, slowly, with cast and crutches in hand. She has Volkner's latest (last) letter tucked neatly in her pocket, but she'd written a reply before even reading what he'd wrote, on plain white stationery.

 _I wish you happiness,_ she'd said, but told him it was too much, too much time and too many resources spent on this that she should be dedicating to something else.

It's not a loss because it was never quite love, she reasons, though she can feel regret tugging at the corner of her heart. But Jasmine has a will of iron, and her mind is already set on it.

 _If he writes back, don't bother delivering it,_ she'd told the mail courier. _Thank you, but it's enough. Thank you for all you've done._

He'd nodded at her solemnly, and that was that. Now, his letter is all that she has left.

When she finally makes it to the top, Jasmine lights the fire in the pit. Then without hesitation, she tosses Volkner's letter and her last unused postcard of Olivine into the flames.

For Jasmine, autumn has always been the season of goodbyes.

She looks out the western window, waiting for the sun to submerge beneath the waves. It's a partly cloudy day today, but a few splotches of orange and red still manage to fight through the clouds and grey.

In a few weeks, it will start to snow. Jasmine lets herself smile a little, thinking about the tiny ice crystals disappearing back into the vast, wide ocean.

She breathes out evenly, the cool white breaths foreshadowing the cold months ahead, and finds herself sliding back into solitude. Jasmine wraps her sweater around her tighter, and prepares for the long winter alone.


End file.
